


make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face

by orphan_account



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Betrayal, Drunken Shenanigans, M/M, Obsession, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:30:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hands calloused with violence. Bloodstream infiltrated by hate. Mask under mask. The only immortality we may share, kid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	make sure you kiss your knuckles before you punch me in the face

Watching him is torture of the most exquisite kind, to connect the different shapes on the cheeks dusted by freckles and fucked-up innocence as hazel eyes curl around the curve of Larry’s mind. He wants to immortalize Orange, nail him on an ornate canvas crafted by faeries and other creatures of lore, sunrays woven into his hair, stardust sprinkled into his eyes. He’d immortalize Orange in a wall made of stones that glisten pearl white in the sunlight, lay his wretched soul at the altar of this faunlet, all soft hair and hard edges, that coyly smiles into his whiskey.

_Hands calloused with violence. Bloodstream infiltrated by hate. Mask under mask. The only immortality we may share, kid._

His biggest fear comes to be offending this beautiful boy, who, honest to God, giggles with a honey-laden voice at Eddie’s jokes so he can’t bring himself to pull him by his dainty hands and tell him his place isn’t among this particular circle of people, Hades setting his Persephone free before she can be devoured by the creatures of the Underworld. 

Instead, he lets the boy charm him, with the way he moves his arms like an overexcited child as his eyes get heavier with alcohol and exhaustion, with the way he licks his lips to chase after the remains of the last of the whiskey, too heavy and too punishing on the kid’s tongue. Larry snatches his glass, long after the rest of the gang is gone, leaving him to burn and ache in a hell of hazel eyes and sweet pink lips.  
In the darkness of the seedy bar, in the noise of an orgy of alcohol and grinding bodies, the kid, with burning cheeks and a drunk afterglow in his eyes rests his head on Larry’s chest. It’s heaven burning like fire, hellfire and it’s everything Larry could have hoped for ever since he first laid eyes on Joe’s newest recruit, doe eyed and freckled and not a bitter clusterfuck of barely concealed bitterness and cynicism Larry didn’t bother concealing, not like Larry. 

The boy raises his head from Larry’s chest, leaving a phantom ache at the place he left so he can look at Larry through eyes hazy with alcohol and delicious devilishness and Larry wants to offer his tar black soul on a platter. The kid leans in, lips merely brushing against Larry’s, an agonized staccato, a loophole, a punishment for the times Larry would imagine those lips reducing him to a moaning mess. 

The boy hugs him then, burying his head in Larry’s chest, letting out that giggle that renders Larry powerless, his sweet crucifixion, the nails driven further by the breathless, boyish laughter in his chest. Why must you mock me, you little devil? Larry, old, foolish Larry, slowly puts his arms around Orange, whose laughter has turned into a grotesque, diabolical sound, somewhere between having the laugh of his life and having the most intense sobbing session ever. 

“I think it’s time we leave.”  
***  
Because Larry is just so damned fucking good, he half-pushes, half-carries the young man into his motel room, who is all rosy cheeks and jelly limbs. But it looks like the faunlet isn’t finished with torturing Larry, who disappears for a minute to get some cold water in a vain attempt to cool the fire burning into Orange, threatening to burn Larry and the whole motel to fucking ashes if not contained. The Who’s ‘Won’t Get Fooled Again’ starts blasting through the motel radio and Freddy starts dancing.  
It’s the least graceful, least synced thing Larry has seen and Orange looks like an overexcited cheerleader but the wound in Larry’s chest festers at the sight of it, he could sit there for hours and watch Orange excitedly jump without much rhythm rather than watch the most intricate of ballets. He is a man of simplicity after all. 

Orange suddenly comes to him and tries to pull Larry from his chair but all he achieves to do is fall flat on his back and let out that sweet giggle that Larry would grovel and beg to hear again before sitting, dazed and confused on the floor, looking up at Larry before lunging forward, resting his warm cheek against Larry’s right knee, long honey eyelashes fluttering, the skin where he touches him a painful epicenter of pleasure.

“Do you like me, Mr. White?”

“I do, Orange, you’re a nice kid.”

“No, I mean, do you like me?” the kid asks, as shy as a blushing maiden as he trails his fingers along Larry’s thigh which Larry had to pry off before they rested on his crotch.

“I do, Lord knows I do. But you are drunk and I will not take advantage of that both because it ain’t right to do so, taking advantage of people who are not in their right mind and all that and because I don’t want you doing anything you might regret. Now, let’s go to bed.”

“Well, someone is eager to get me into bed.”

“To sleep, kid.”

Orange half-drags himself, half-walks to the bed and collapses on it, feet dangling from the edge before Larry takes hold of them and takes off Orange’s shoes who crawls under the covers and stills, staring upwards, one hand at his chest as if it’s tightening, threatening to swallow his insides.

“Hey, buddy. Are you alright there?”

“Yes. Will you please sleep next to me? I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Larry thought the torture at the bar was the worst of it discovers that he is wrong, just like it’s wrong to think that Orange, glowing and young and beautiful would like an old brute like him. The kid’s limbs twist and slide like snakes under the covers, a small sleepy moan and the kid turns on his stomach as Larry’s eyes burn into the clock on the wall as he’s sitting next to the young man asleep next to him, hoping morning both never comes and comes too quickly as his hand reaches out to caress Orange’s lower back, hoping at the same time his hand shrivels for what he’s doing. Only after a minute of this silent veneration does he realize Orange’s eyes are open. He smiles, showing off adorably crooked teeth. _You’re gonna love me._   
***  
Larry enters the courtroom, feet made of lead. Oran- _Freddy_ is on the witness stand, this foreign incarnation of Mr. Orange, on whose lips Larry tasted whole universes when they were making love. Freddy, all slick hair and cool Brando-esque composure, raises his hand and gives him a small wave. 

_Larry wants to reach out and wrap his big hands around Freddy’s throat, watching the life fade from his eyes. Larry has never been more in love._

**Author's Note:**

> wow im such sad trash now


End file.
